


Between the dragon and her wrath

by La Reine Noire (lareinenoire)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: got_exchange, Gen, Prophetic Dreams, references to domestic abuse, references to rape, references to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 08:22:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1421326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lareinenoire/pseuds/La%20Reine%20Noire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Rhaella Targaryen survives the birth of her daughter and finds herself in a brave new world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the dragon and her wrath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Netgirl_y2k](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Netgirl_y2k/gifts).



> Title is adapted from Shakespeare, _King Lear_ , 1.1.122. Thanks so, so much to WinterofourDiscontent, Rosamund, and Gehayi, my lovely beta-readers.

The queen awakened, and at first, she did not know where she was. The canopy above her was emblazoned with Targaryen dragons, its frame a twisting mass of scales and wings. Then she remembered.

 

 _...a battle on the banks of the Trident. He's dead, Your Grace, and we are all lost_. Her good-daughter's unnatural calm as she bid her farewell in the courtyard of the Red Keep. _I look forward to meeting my new good-sister. You must keep well_. Rhaella had been so certain of a girl, no matter what her husband had thought. She had wondered, as the wheelhouse pulled away, if she would ever see Elia again.

 

They were all dead. Elia and Rhaegar, her grandchildren, Aegon still in swaddling clothes and fierce, willful Rhaenys. Aerys too, cut down on his throne. _I am the only one left_. Viserys was just a child, and...

 

"Your Grace!" There was a man beside the bed, his grey hair standing out around his face like a bear's pelt. "Thank the gods you're awake. We feared for you."

 

"The babe, Ser Willem." The master-at-arms from King's Landing had accompanied them to Dragonstone. She had begged Aerys for one of the Kingsguard--Viserys had taken to following Jaime Lannister like a shadow, after all--but the king had turned away. _What good did three Kingsguard do on the Trident?_ They had compromised on Ser Willem, and Jaime Lannister had killed Aerys. She did not know whether to laugh or cry. "Where is she?"

 

"She's with the wet-nurse, Your Grace. A beautiful girl. You named her Daenerys."

 

"Did I?" Rhaella had to think for a moment. "I did. Daenerys, the queen of peace. And my son?"

 

"I sent him to bed, Your Grace, but he'll come as soon as he hears you're awake."

 

Rhaella smiled faintly. "No, let him sleep. Ser Willem, has there been any news?" The sky outside the window was the rich blue that only came after the worst of storms, and the waves pitched and roiled below. She could taste salt on her lips.

 

The old knight looked down, then back at her. "Ill news, Your Grace. There was a terrible storm. It was as though the Dragonmont itself had awakened, and the waves nearly drowned us all." He took a breath. "We have no ships, Your Grace. They are all lost."

 

Rhaella closed her eyes. "None at all?"

 

"Not enough to matter. Stannis Baratheon is building a new fleet at Storm's End, and the Redwynes have joined him from the Arbor. We cannot win, Your Grace."

 

"No, we cannot." Rhaella reached for his hand. "And we cannot stay here, can we?" There was something strangely comforting about Dragonstone, though it lacked the luxury of the Red Keep. Viserys loved it. He ran wild in its endless corridors, asking questions of everyone and demanding to know as much as he could about this place from which the Targaryens came. Rhaella had grown to love it too in these past months. _And now the usurper would take this from us_.

 

"No, my queen. We cannot stay here."

 

Rhaella forced herself to sit even as her muscles screamed in pain. "Find us a ship, Ser Willem. Any ship will do, the smaller the better. Tell the captain to wait in readiness. When I am well enough, we will sail."

 

"Where, Your Grace?"

 

"Somewhere. I must think on it." Her head ached, but she forced a smile. "Thank you, Ser Willem."

 

"For what?" He dropped to one knee. "You are my queen. I will serve you and your children to my dying day."

 

"And I would not take that for granted, Ser Willem. I am not my husband."

 

When he left, Rhaella sank back into the pillows. Viserys would wake soon and she must tell him the full truth. After all these years of keeping it from him, of making up stories about his father's fits, of praying her inquisitive boy hadn't overheard the servants and soldiers gossiping about the mad king and his crimes. There was some relief in that, surely.

 

She must have drowsed, for the next thing she recalled was her son.

 

"Mother!" Viserys' headlong charge halted in the doorway at Ser Willem's stern glance, and Rhaella couldn't help but smile. She held out her arms and Viserys climbed onto the bed to hug her close. "They told me you were going to die just like Father."

 

"Hush now, sweetling. I'm not going to die, least of all like your father. But there are things I must tell you, and you must listen very carefully." Viserys looked up at her. He had his father's eyes and she could only pray that the madness had passed him by. "Your father, Viserys, was very ill. You knew that, didn't you?"

 

"He told me strange things sometimes. I thought it was because the grand maester was giving him the milk of the poppy, but it wasn't, was it?" Viserys gripped her fingers tightly, his words coming faster. "And there were things the servants said about Father and Lord Rossart but when I asked Ser Willem, he told me I shouldn't listen to gossip. Was it true?"

 

Ser Willem lowered his eyes. "I thought it best that he hear it from you."

 

"You were right, ser," said Rhaella, before looking again at her son. "Yes, sweetling, I lied to you. Perhaps it was wrong of me, but you're just a child, and I could not bear to tell you."

 

"Will you tell me the truth now?" Viserys sounded strangely calm. "Promise?"

 

"I promise, sweetling." Rhaella took a breath. "Your father hurt people and he took joy in it. He used Lord Rossart and his wildfire, and he did terrible things. He was mad, Viserys."

 

"Is that why the usurper came?" asked Viserys. "Was it because Father was a bad king?"

 

"It...isn't that simple, Viserys." It was, of course, what the usurper's own men were saying--that the realm had grown rotten and corrupt under the Targaryens and that Aerys' madness was proof that they were unfit to rule. No doubt that story was spreading through every alehouse and winesink in the Seven Kingdoms. Never mind that Robert Baratheon had first called his banners in a woman's name.

 

"Ser Willem," Rhaella asked, "whatever became of Lyanna Stark?" There had been no word of her in any of the dispatches that had made it as far as Dragonstone. The usurper's allies along the coast made a point of shooting down ravens clearly bound for the island. But Rhaella knew that Rhaegar had gone so far as to send three of the Kingsguard to protect her and her unborn child.

 

Ser Willem frowned. "Lord Stark's sister, Your Grace?"

 

"And my son's mistress, I believe," the queen added dryly. Of the child, it was better to say nothing. "There has been no word of her, then? What of the remaining Kingsguard?"

 

"Nothing, Your Grace."

 

"You see, Viserys, how little we know," she disentangled her fingers from her son's and brushed the pale, silvery hair away from his face. "We must be very careful from now on. And you must protect your sister." Viserys pressed his lips together and Rhaella suddenly saw tears at the corners of his eyes. "What is it, sweetling?"

 

"Why didn't Ser Jaime protect Aegon and Rhaenys? He was supposed to protect them, and Elia too. Why didn't he?"

 

 _He was too busy killing your father_. Rhaella had to cover mouth to keep from either laughing or sobbing--or perhaps both. "It was Ser Jaime who killed your father, Viserys."

 

Her son did not speak. His hands were clenched into fists in his lap, his eyes closed. "But you said Father was a monster."

 

"I did."

 

"Is that why Ser Jaime killed him?"

 

"I'm afraid only Ser Jaime knows the answer to that."

 

Viserys was silent for so long that Rhaella remembered with dread the moments when Aerys would stare at things she could not see. Then, looking up at her with a sniff, he said, "I suppose you must kill him, but will you let me ask him first?"

 

Rhaella hugged her son close. "Of course, sweetling."

 

***

 

Escaping from Dragonstone proved easier than Rhaella might have guessed, with only a skeleton household in the fortress itself. Ser Willem had commandeered two ships, one of which had been driven hard against the rocks during the storm and was taking on water slowly and steadily.

 

Viserys' explorations over the past months had found a passage from the fortress that led up to the long-abandoned caves in the Dragonmont where the Targaryen dragons had once nested. From there, perched high above the fortress as though they themselves had wings, Rhaella and Viserys watched as guards and servants alike took up the alarm that the queen and prince had vanished from their chambers.

 

They watched, too, as the ship crawled from the shadows below the fortress, making its hulking way across the bay to the east. There were guards on all the eastern battlements and a few desultory arrows even arced from the fortress into the bay. As the ship sailed into the oncoming darkness, however, it became clear that the hull was barely above the water. The sailors on board sent up flares, twinkling like stars above the bay, but the fortress guards sent nothing in response. Slowly, silently, it disappeared beneath the waves as the last of the sun's rays faded behind the mountain.

 

Rhaella slipped her arm around her son. "There, you see. The last of the Targaryens taken to a watery grave."

 

"Will they really believe it, Mother?"

 

"We must hope so," she replied with a faint smile. Then, glancing back over her shoulder, her eyes met those of Daenerys' wet-nurse, a stocky, dark-skinned woman whose family had lived in the village below Dragonstone for generations now. There might even have been some dragon's blood in her. _Dragonseeds_. It was the name given to the baseborn children of Targaryens in the first century or two of the Conquest. In the woman's arms, Daenerys watched her mother silently. "She's as quiet as your brother was," Rhaella murmured, ruffling Viserys' hair. "You, on the other hand, gave me no peace."

 

Viserys wrinkled his nose at his sister. "I'm more interesting than her."

 

"You were very boring when you were her age, I'll have you know," Rhaella said. She caught his hand in hers with a grin. Viserys had been a surprise blessing after the years of false hopes and tiny graves that had followed the disaster of Summerhall and Rhaegar's birth. Daenerys, the gods help her, she had cursed in those first awful weeks, contemplating the prospect of bringing a baby to term when the best of her childbearing years were behind her. She had recanted each and every one when she set eyes on her daughter. "All you wanted was to eat and sleep, just like her. But, soon, she'll be old enough for you to tell her stories. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

 

"Rhaegar used to tell me stories."

 

Tears pricked at Rhaella's eyes and she kissed Viserys' forehead. "Then you will tell Daenerys stories for him." Once again, her eyes met those of the wet-nurse. "What is your name, goodwife?"

 

"Thistle, m'lady. We're all prickly ones in my family."

 

"There was a dragonrider once named Nettles," Rhaella remembered.

 

Thistle smiled, revealing a gap between her bottom teeth. "Ay, m'lady. She was my granddam many times removed. Can't see myself riding a dragon, though."

 

"Nor can I," Rhaella admitted. "You would leave your family to go with us?" It had not occurred to her even when Aerys sent them from King's Landing just how many lives she must have uprooted. Some, she knew, had lost their families to Tywin Lannister's army of butchers and would surely have died with them on that awful day, but when had the smallfolk ever been given a choice? _Mother forgive me, I did not see_. "It is a great sacrifice. I would not force you."

 

Thistle shrugged. "Begging your pardon, m'lady, but what life do I have here? My little one went into the sea with my man in the great storm. And there came word from the castle that we had a new princess and the queen was ill unto death..." She looked down at Daenerys, who squirmed a little. "Nay, m'lady, I'll stay with you. I've always wanted to see the Free Cities."

 

The ship that carried the royal family had come from a Tyroshi smuggler, but Rhaella did not care--in fact, she welcomed it, for the hold came equipped with a false compartment where she and the two children crouched in silence on the day they entered the great harbour of Pentos. There they waited for hours until finally the harbourmaster's men pronounced the middling cargo acceptable and allowed them to dock.

 

During the journey, Rhaella and Thistle had rubbed a tincture into her hair to darken it to an unremarkable straw-yellow. Recalling the stories of her grandsire when he squired for Ser Duncan the Tall, she had Ser Willem shave Viserys' silvery curls till he was bald as an egg and found him a straw hat to keep his skin from peeling in the sun. Wearing roughspun wool and a goodwife's cloak, Daenerys wrapped in scraps of quilting, Rhaella herself barely earned a second glance when they stepped off the ship. Even so, they did not linger in Pentos any longer than it took for Ser Willem to book passage on a galley bound for Tyrosh.

 

It was here that they waited. Ser Willem found them rooms in an unassuming inn near the harbour and sent Rhaella's message on the first ship he found that was making for Sunspear. _To the Princess of Dorne, the most honoured lady Artemisia Martell, I call upon you in my time of greatest need. We seek asylum within the borders of Dorne for myself and my children. I beg you, by our dear friendship, to help me now. Yours ever, Rhaella of House Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms_.

 

Three weeks they waited, until the day a vessel arrived in the harbour flying the sun-and-spear of House Martell. Rhaella retrieved her one fine dress along with a small brass mirror -- _a sop to my vanity_ , she'd remarked to Thistle. The wet-nurse had only given a sharp snort of laughter, and now she sat as she often did on the balcony of their rented room, Daenerys drowsing in her arms.

 

Rhaella peered into the glass--she had not seen it since snatching it from her dressing table on the day they fled Dragonstone--and, for a moment, she could only stare. "Aerys would not know me," she said aloud, startling herself. The woman in the mirror was brown from the sun, her hands rough and callused from wind and salt. Though the roots of her hair still gleamed, they were more silver now than gold. Rhaella of House Targaryen had been little more than a shadow beside her husband, fading as his madness lingered and spread. This was someone else.

 

"You've improved," was Thistle's contribution.

 

"Do you think so?"

 

"I saw you on the night you arrived above." The fortress of Dragonstone was always "above" to Thistle, even so many leagues away. "Frail as a leaf, clinging to your boy, and scared of your own shadow."

 

"I had good reason then," said Rhaella, meeting her reflection's eyes, "and now he is dead." When she had first arrived at Dragonstone, the nightmares had awakened her every night. Aerys crouched above her in the darkness, his teeth filed to razor-sharp points, laughing as she begged him to stop, and only when she awakened was she able to remember that he was far away in King's Landing. And further still--in the coldest of the seven hells, where there was neither fire nor light, if the gods were just.

 

She left the children with Thistle and when Ser Willem would have followed her onto the ship, she bade him wait on the docks. "If all is well, I will send you for the children."

 

"And if all is not well, Your Grace?"

 

Rhaella shook her head, unseen beneath her hood. "That will be my concern, not yours, Ser Willem." For she had seen, flying beneath the sun-and-spear, a slim, snapping banner of black silk shot with rubies--three Targaryen dragons in the Dornish style. Even so, she caught her breath at the sight of the woman rising from the chair on the far side of the ship's deck.

 

Artemisia Martell was of an age with Rhaella and had stayed much the same in the warmth and comfort of Sunspear. "Oh, my dear Rhaella," said the princess of Dorne, "I scarcely know what to say. I am so very sorry."

 

Rhaella gave up all pretence of dignity and clung tightly to her former lady-in-waiting. "I didn't expect you to come yourself. Surely it's dangerous for you to be here."

 

"Not at all," she said, sounding bemused. "Dorne is at war with no one. We have our dead to bury." There was a rawness in her voice that Rhaella recognised all too well. "You know what they did to my girl." Artemisia swallowed, her lips pressed tight. "To my Elia. To the children."

 

Rhaella nodded. "I know."

 

"I have sat before the Mother's shrine every day since the raven arrived. I have begged her for answers and she gives me nothing. It was not Robert Baratheon who gave the order that my Elia and her babes should die. It was _Tywin_. Our Joanna's Tywin. And I cannot understand."

 

"I can," Rhaella said, her voice hollow. "You did not see what Aerys became. But even so, Elia was innocent. The children even more so. Their blood is on his hands and he will pay for it."

 

"Will he?" It was the princess of Dorne who looked at her now, not Artemisia Martell, her dearest friend. "Tell me, Rhaella, what will you do?"

 

"I will wait," said Rhaella. The wind caught at her sleeves, whipping them against her skirts. "I will bide my time. My children will be my vengeance for their brother and his family." She held out her hands to Artemisia. "I understand that you must think of your own safety, your own children, but--"

 

Artemisia embraced her. "So long as you remain within our borders, my queen, Dorne will protect you. We do not throw away our oaths of allegiance so lightly." She seemed terribly slight in Rhaella's arms. As though she noticed, Artemisia laughed. "I've been ill, but it's nothing to worry about. The Water Gardens will help. They always help." Her smile faded then, and she turned away.

 

Rhaella knew her better than to say anything. Elia had been sickly too, she recalled. Her good-daughter had nearly died when Aegon was born. _It might have been a better death_. She did not want to think of that, of her dead grandchildren, Rhaegar's children. _He was my light and my life. Why did the gods see fit to let Robert Baratheon murder him?_ She had demanded that of the Stranger on the night word came of the carnage on the Trident. _Why leave Aerys and take him?_ He had been the best of them all.

 

"I should have taken them with me," she said. "To Dragonstone. I should have taken Elia and the children." But Aerys had refused, insisting they remain, hostages for Dorne's good behaviour, never thinking that he had doomed them. _He is gone and I am free of him. But the price was too high, gods, it was too high_. "I am so sorry, Artemisia," she whispered, feeling the tears choke the words in her throat. "I promised to protect your daughter and instead I let that monster have her."

 

"There were monsters of every kind in King's Landing that day, from what I hear." The voice was a man's, and Rhaella turned, blinking away her tears. The young man stepping onto the ship looked startlingly like Elia, and she remembered who he was and where she had last seen him. "Your Grace." He dropped to one knee. "Dorne will have vengeance. We will rise in your son's name and bring down the usurper."

 

"Oberyn, you do not speak for Dorne," his mother snapped. "Do not make rash promises."

 

"He is young, Artemisia," Rhaella said, raising Oberyn to his feet. "He is young and he has lost his sister and niece and nephew. We will have our revenge, Prince Oberyn, in due time."

 

"I bring word from the Archon's court, Your Grace, Mother. They found Jon Connington and he is on his way here as we speak. His message claimed that he had news of great import." He moved like a coiled spring, rage in every line of his body. He would be a mighty weapon to strike at the usurper--but he was only one man. Robert Baratheon had the armies of the Vale and the North behind him, and even the Reach had turned in the end.

 

The worst was that Rhaella could not blame them. How could she, having lived every day with the knowledge of what the king was? Rhaegar, too, had known. _I should have pressed him further, should have given him my blessing to take the crown, no matter the means_. If she had been a true mother of dragons, she would have killed Aerys herself. There were a thousand nights when she had lain awake beside him, imagining herself plunging a dagger through his heart but terrified that even one movement might stir him. _I was too frightened and my children paid the price_.

 

Well, she had had enough of fear.

 

"Then I shall be curious to learn his news," she said. Taking Artemisia's arm, she let Prince Oberyn lead them to the captain's quarters.

 

***

 

Jon Connington was the friend of Rhaegar's who surprised Rhaella the most. Arthur Dayne made perfect sense--indeed, there had been times when the two were boys that she'd grown fearful from the silence--but the young lord of Griffin's Roost was brash and outspoken and everything Rhaegar was not. He would also have followed her son to the ends of the earth, and when Rhaella saw him again on board the _Princess Myriah_ , she knew that he wished he'd done so already. With him were only two companions, a woman and a small child. They lingered at the far corner of the room near where Artemisia Martell sat on a cushioned chair much like the one Rhaella recalled her daughter using. Prince Oberyn stood behind her, his eyes following Connington warily. Two Dornish guards stood on the far side of the door to guarantee that they would not be disturbed.

 

When the Vale, Storm's End, and Winterfell had all called their banners in open revolt against him, Aerys had banished cheerful Lord Merryweather and named Jon Connington Hand of the King in his place. For a handful of weeks, the choice had even seemed a wise one, until the night in Stoney Sept that they called the Battle of the Bells. She could not fault him and never would for what he had refused to do, and though Aerys had threatened to give him to the pyromancers, Rhaella and Elia had begged for his life and the king, sneering at the weakness of women, had granted him penniless banishment.

 

"Your Grace," he said, sinking to his knees, his voice rough with grief, "I am to blame for this."

 

"Don't be an idiot, Griff," she snapped. His expression when he looked up at her was one she'd seen hundreds of times before when he was a boy. "You are no more to blame for Stoney Sept than Rhaegar was for the Trident." Reaching out, she brushed the unruly red curls out of his eyes and added gently, "Tell me your news, my dear."

 

The smile that spread across his face made Rhaella's heart pound. "Prince Aegon."

 

Rhaella's breath caught on a gasp. "You cannot mean--"

 

"Lord Varys smuggled him out of the Red Keep on the day you departed for Dragonstone. He and the princess had planned it all. The boy who died in King's Landing was some beggar's child from Flea Bottom."

 

"The gods be thanked. And Rhaenys?" It was too much to hope for. _Oh, Elia, my sweet, clever girl_. Her eyes met those of Oberyn Martell and she knew he was thinking the same thing. "Is she with you too?"

 

Griff's smile faded a little. "No, Your Grace, the princess was not with him. I was never told why. Something must have gone wrong."

 

"But Aegon lives, you say."

 

Just beyond him, near the cabin's larger window, was a woman gowned and wimpled like a septa, a child clinging to her grey skirts. It had been more than a year since Rhaella had last seen her grandson, a fair-haired slip of a child wrapped in swaddling-clothes in Elia's lap as she waved one of his little fists in farewell. Rhaenys had taken after her mother, with dark hair and a widow's peak, but Aegon had been too young. When the boy looked up, she realised that he and Viserys had the same eyes.

 

"Aegon?" she ventured, holding out one hand. "He's too young to remember me, surely."

 

"We can't know, Your Grace," said the woman. Her voice was surprisingly young. Rhaella looked at her for the first time and narrowed her eyes. A pretty girl--no, on closer examination, quite beautiful, even in the severity of septa's robes--and something about her face seemed to jog Rhaella's memory. "You knew me, Your Grace, though not very well. I served Princess Elia."

 

"Arthur Dayne's sister." He was dead too, though she did not know the details. All of her husband's Kingsguard had perished as far as she knew; perhaps it was fitting that they had died with their king and prince. "Ashara Dayne."

 

"As was," she replied, looking down and brushing the child's silvery curls with one hand. "He is all I have of my lady."

 

"Do you believe he's real? You were in King's Landing before the sack; you must know the truth." Rhaella couldn't quite look at the child, not until she _knew_. "Is this my grandson, Lady Ashara?"

 

"I _think_ so, Your Grace, but we cannot know for certain. I fear the only one who does is Lord Varys."

 

Rhaella had heard nothing of the Lysene eunuch, but that did not surprise her. Varys revealed his secrets only when it pleased him. Elia must have trusted him, but who could say what such a man might have done with a prince of the blood? _This story could beget an army of pretenders claiming to be the lost Aegon VI_.

 

"Your Grace," said Ashara, "there will always be those who will question him, but it is what you believe that matters most. If you say that this is Prince Rhaegar's son, that is enough."

 

"She speaks for all of us," added Oberyn Martell. Rhaella noted with satisfaction that he had exchanged glances with his mother before speaking. Jon Connington opened his mouth as if to argue, but, rather to Rhaella's surprise, thought better of it and kept silent. She almost wished he had spoken, if only to preserve the illusion that nothing had changed, but it was not to be. There were more pressing questions--such as the child the lady Ashara's brother had been guarding at Rhaegar's behest instead of standing at the king's side as his duty bade him.

 

"Do you know anything of Lyanna Stark?"

 

Ashara’s eyes met hers, as wide and violet as any Targaryen's. Would it be so difficult, Rhaella couldn't help but wonder, to find a child of Aegon's description? Targaryens past had taken their pleasures with whomever they pleased--who knew how many dragonseeds they had left behind? One of whom was also Rhaegar's child. "Lyanna Stark is dead, Your Grace," said Ashara. "She died giving birth to a son."

 

"A son?" Rhaella frowned. "Not a daughter? Rhaegar was so certain..."

 

"So was my lady," said Ashara, smiling faintly, "but the babe decided otherwise."

 

"Does he live?"

 

"Aye, he does. I made a promise to his mother. I took him to Starfall with me and would have kept him myself, but..." Another smile, this one sharper, like a dagger's point. "I had a better idea."

 

"Are you mad, Ashara?" Oberyn broke in. "If the usurper were to find out--"

 

"He won't. And even if he did, it wouldn't matter. The boy is under Winterfell's protection now." Rhaella was dimly aware of a murmur following those words, but she could look at nothing but the young Dornishwoman who had abandoned her grandchild. "He is as much Stark as he is Targaryen, and if there is one man in the Seven Kingdoms who Robert Baratheon will not cross, it is Lord Stark."

 

Rhaella could barely keep her temper. "He should be with his family."

 

"He _is_ with his family, Your Grace." There was steel in Lady Ashara's voice. "And safer there than anywhere else."

 

"How dare you?" snapped Rhaella. "He is the blood of the dragon--"

 

"And what good did that do, Your Grace, against the Mountain that Rides?" Rhaella could see tears in the younger woman's eyes. The child, sensing her distress, whimpered a little. Ashara lifted him--with some effort--and held him close. "I do not know if this is your grandson, Your Grace. I think I see my lady in him when he smiles, but perhaps I see what I wish to see. But I beg you, please, let the other one be. You did not know his mother, but she died because of your son's actions. As did my lady, and so many, many others."

 

Rhaella closed her eyes, trying desperately to gather her thoughts and keep her temper. What was it Rhaegar had said when he knelt for her blessing on the eve of his departure for the Trident? _I may not have intended harm, Mother, but I am guilty all the same_.

 

She had not understood Rhaegar's insistence on pursuing the northern girl or Princess Elia's apparent indifference. It was something to do with the prophecy, he'd insisted, and Rhaella had wanted no more of it. Her life, it seemed, was bounded by prophecies. Her grandsire had grown obsessed with them in his old age, convinced that he could bring the Targaryen dragons back to life if only he could put the pieces together, and two of those pieces had been Rhaella and Aerys. _Look at what came of that_. She wondered if her grandsire could see them from the world of the dead, could see what his actions had wrought.

 

The silence stretched onward. They were waiting for her, she realised, and she did not know what to do. Gregor Clegane, it was said, had ripped her grandson from her good-daughter's arms and smashed his skull against the wall like an egg. And yet, perhaps, here he was if she could only believe it.

 

All this while the boy had been watching in silence, even after Ashara set him back on the ground. Rhaella found herself frowning down at him, recalling a long-ago day when Aerys had complained that the prince of Dragonstone had nearly reached his second name-day without speaking a word. "Does he speak, Lady Ashara?"

 

"He hasn't to me, Your Grace, but he seems a thoughtful child, doesn't he? Aegon?" The boy looked up at Ashara, then at Rhaella. It would be so easy to believe this was her Rhaegar's child. _Would it be such a terrible lie?_ Would Viserys resent being thrust aside for a nephew if he found out that she hadn't been certain?

 

"You are safe now," she told him before turning to the rest. "We will protect them. Viserys, Daenerys, and Aegon, the three heads of the Targaryen dragon. As for the other," she looked at Ashara Dayne, "we will think on how to proceed."

 

There was a noise outside the cabin door before it opened to admit first Ser Willem Darry, his grizzled hair running riot in the Tyroshi heat, and then Viserys, dressed like a scullion and still wearing that accursed straw hat from which Rhaella could not part him. Thistle followed, baby Daenerys peering curiously about from a cocoon of bright Dornish linens.

 

At the sound of stifled laughter, Rhaella met Artemisia's eyes. "I think that concludes our business in Tyrosh. I see Prince Viserys is sporting the latest fashion."

 

Viserys lifted the brim of his hat to peer at her. "My lady mother tells me kings shouldn't be sunburnt."

 

"Viserys, really," murmured Rhaella. "Greet the Princess of Dorne properly. At least pretend you have manners."

 

"Griff!" Viserys had caught sight of the red-haired giant. "They didn't tell me you were here." Turning back, he pulled off the hat and made a rather shamefaced bow to Artemisia. "My lady princess. I beg your pardon."

 

"Granted, Prince Viserys. And, really, Rhaella, my boys were no better at his age. At least one of them," she added with a glance at Oberyn, "still isn't." She rose from the chair and took Rhaella's hands. "My dear, come with us to Sunspear. I swear to you that we will keep you safe."

 

"I trust you, Artemisia. But what of the Iron Throne? The usurper will not forget about you forever, however much he might wish it."

 

"Jon Arryn was making his way south from King's Landing when I left. The gods willing, he will be gone by the time we return." She smiled. "What he does not know cannot hurt him, right?"

 

"And your son? Is he negotiating with the usurper?"

 

Artemisia stepped back and looked at her. "You know better than to ask that, Rhaella. My son acts in my name and he is doing what is best for Dorne. If that means negotiating with Robert Baratheon's Hand, usurper that he is, so be it. It will buy us time, and time is what we need."

 

"Of course. It is not my place," she allowed, biting back the stinging anger that threatened with that knowledge. "I will not forget what you have done for us, my dearest friend. You and Dorne."

 

"You are my queen and, more than that, you are my kin." Slowly but gracefully, Artemisia sank into a curtsey. "My daughter loved your son, and I would be a poor mother indeed if I did not avenge her and you."

 

***

 

Rhaella knew she slept deeply on the night that they arrived in Sunspear because it was the first night in so many that she dreamed. The last she remembered was on the night of Daenerys' birth--Dany, now, to nearly everyone after Viserys and Oberyn Martell collectively decided that she was too little for such a long name. There had been an odd wistfulness in the Dornish prince's face when he said that, but Rhaella did not pry further, knowing it likely had something to do with his sister.

 

Her dreams in Dragonstone had been fragmented, terrifying things, glimpses of a world she did not recognise. Endless red waste stretched before her littered with the bones of armies and battles long forgotten. Horses and men alike lay tangled, bleached beneath the merciless sun. One skull in particular had caught her eye, dripping with melted gold, its eyes amethysts. And overhead, the vast, winged shadow of a great dragon.

 

She had dreamed the dragon dreams as a child--it was a gift granted to some of her blood and not others--but they had never been easy to understand. Whenever her great-uncle Aemon visited from the Citadel, he would always spent at least a few hours with her in the Grand Maester's quarters in the Red Keep answering her questions as best he could. After they sent him to the Wall, Rhaella wrote to him for a few years, but slowly the letters grew rarer until they stopped altogether. By then there were too many things she could not tell him.

 

In Dorne, where the sun burned even hotter than in Pentos and Tyrosh, she dreamt of deepest winter.

 

Rhaella had never travelled further north than Harrenhal, and even that had only been in her youth. Her great-uncle had written to her of the marvels of the north, of mountains that brushed the sky on whose peaks the snow never melted, and the Wall itself, hundreds of feet of solid ice to protect the realm.

 

It seemed she stood upon the Wall now, the landscape before her draped in snow. In her hands, she held a candle black and sharp-edged that she could have sworn was made of glass, not wax or tallow. Though the icy winds raged around her, the flame held steady. Far below, in the shadows below the trees, she thought she saw shapes, white and slender, as though forged of ice crystals. She had heard the stories, as every child in Westeros did, of the dead who walked in the long nights of the coldest winters and feasted on human flesh, but those were tales for the hearthfire and nobody _believed_ them.

 

"And that is why they will die, Mother." She turned, startled, and found Rhaegar standing there. He wore his armour, the rubies on his breastplate cracked and falling like drops of blood. "Because they do not believe."

 

"Rhaegar, what do you mean?"

 

"The real war isn't with my cousin Robert." Robert Baratheon, it was said, had smashed her son's breastplate with a single stroke of his great warhammer, crushing his ribs and piercing his heart. The rubies had littered the Red Fork, a fortune lost in the currents of the Trident. "And it cannot be won without dragons."

 

"Dragons, always dragons," muttered Rhaella. "Had it not been for my grandsire's vain dreams of dragons, your father would never have sat the Iron Throne. None of this would have happened."

 

"There is no profit in that, Mother. You must believe. You must _remember_."

 

She tried. She pushed aside the layers of fog and sweetsleep and milk of the poppy, and she forced herself to think. There had been one day when she had paid a visit to the Grand Maester in his chambers and had found Rhaegar there, arguing hotly with Pycelle.

 

"Your Grace, it is a vain fancy. The last of the dragons died out generations ago and there can be no bringing them back. Your great-grandsire perished at Summerhall trying to revive the dragons."

 

"And I will not make the same mistake," Rhaegar snapped. "There is a maester of the Citadel, one of your own, who writes from Asshai of dragon's eggs in a marketplace."

 

"If you mean Marwyn, the man is mad."

 

"Mad, he may be, but I will see what he brings back." It was then that Rhaegar had spotted her in the doorway. Rhaella looked at her son as recollection melted into ice and wind and whirling snow. Rhaegar was still standing there on the Wall at the edge of the world, the strange half-smile on his face that he had always seemed to wear when trying to explain something to her.

 

"You still laugh at your mother, then?" she asked. "Laugh at her and tell her to chase after dragons halfway across the world. At my age!"

 

Rhaegar grinned. "I fear the Starks speak truth, Mother, and winter is coming. It will not matter who sits the Iron Throne when the snows come and the dead walk among us." When she looked up at him, his face was grey and rotted, his eyes sparkling bluer than sapphires. He grabbed her hands, still locked round the glass candle, and plunged the burning point into his chest. As he sank to his knees, blue leaching from his eyes as his form dissolved into snow, he whispered, " _Remember_ , Mother."

 

Rhaella awakened, colder than she had ever felt before.

 

She did not speak of her dream to anyone at first. Then, in a fit of desperate inspiration, she wrote to Aemon. It was risky--ravens could be shot down, messages intercepted--but he was her only kin and a maester of the Citadel. She watched the raven until it was no more than a speck against the blue Dornish sky. _The Starks speak truth. Winter is coming_. Rhaegar's voice echoed in her head.

 

Three moons had turned since their arrival in Dorne when the Pentoshi arrived. His train rivalled that of any prince, snaking through the streets of Sunspear as Rhaella and Artemisia watched from one of the castle's slim, graceful towers.

 

"They say he imports all the cheese in Pentos," said Artemisia, taking a sip of wine. "A widower, and fabulously rich."

 

"The gods forbid," Rhaella murmured. "I've had enough of husbands."

 

Artemisia reached out and squeezed her hand. "You have, my dear. But I suggest you flirt with him all the same. Illyrio Mopatis sees the manifest of every ship that comes in and out of Pentos." At Rhaella's expression, she smiled. "Our maester mentioned the books you'd borrowed from him."

 

Rhaella peered down at the litter making its plodding way down the roads toward the palace. "You think Illyrio Mopatis might have dragons' eggs?"

 

"If any man in the Free Cities would know where to find them, it would be Illyrio. If it is valuable, believe me, he can find it."

 

Illyrio's name was a well-known one, having risen from an obscure sellsword to the wealthiest man in Pentos, married to the Prince's daughter before she died giving birth to a stillborn child. He knelt in the marble-floored throne room before the Princess of Dorne and her son and heir Prince Doran, but his eyes strayed continually to Rhaella, standing off to one side.

 

He contrived to walk alone with her along one of the colonnades soon afterward. She remembered having met him many years before, when he came to Aerys' court. He had been a strikingly beautiful young man, golden-haired with the quicksilver grace of an expert swordsman. Not so now--it seemed the years of living in luxury had caught up with him, thickening his girth and adding both years and layers to his face. _What a waste_ , thought Rhaella as she looked at him, _but at least one assumes he is not mad_.

 

"I will be truthful with you, Your Grace."

 

"I trust, my lord Illyrio, that you would never be anything but," said Rhaella, casting him a careful sideways glance from beneath her lashes. "What would you tell me?"

 

"Robert Baratheon is a young man and a great warrior. Your son is a child and his father was a madman who consorted with pyromancers. It will be difficult, if not impossible, to convince the lords of the Seven Kingdoms to take you back."

 

Rhaella stopped, her hands clasped at her waist, and turned to him. "My son is a Targaryen, the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms."

 

"Your Grace, for the Targaryens to take back the Iron Throne, I fear they need what they no longer possess." Illyrio's eyes were dark and sharp, just like Varys, the man to whom he had introduced her husband.

 

"Speaking of things the Targaryens no longer possess," Rhaella said, "do you happen to know if Lord Varys still breathes?"

 

"He does, Your Grace. He grieves for the loss of your son and for the princess and their children." He shook his head. "Such a dreadful thing, and quite unlooked-for from Lord Tywin. Although," he added, "it was not Varys I meant."

 

"I know what you meant," she sighed, "and I am told such a thing is hopeless, that I could no more find dragons' eggs than I could walk in the marketplace of Old Valyria."

 

Illyrio studied her for a moment, a considering expression on his face. "There are those who claim to possess such treasures. Men of my acquaintance."

 

"A dragon's egg is beyond price."

 

"Oh, nothing is beyond price." He laughed. "Not truly."

 

"And what would you ask in return, my lord?" Rhaella's heart was pounding. It could not possibly be so easy. "I am not so green as to think you would give me such a mighty gift from the goodness of your heart."

 

"Your son will need advisors of all kinds. I've always wanted to be Master of Coin." The smile as he looked at her was strangely wistful. "You feared what else I might ask of you, Your Grace?"

 

"A woman, my lord, must always keep certain bargains in mind," she replied dryly.

 

He raised her hand to his lips. "You are a beautiful woman, Rhaella Targaryen, but I am in need of heirs and you have three already."

 

"I am grateful for your honesty, my lord. As for the other matter, I pray you tell me when you hear of any willing to part with their treasure. I assure you that when my son takes back his throne, he will be most generous to those who aided him."

 

"We have an understanding, my queen."

 

He left her soon afterward standing below a mosaic of Queen Nymeria setting her ships afire and binding herself and her descendants to Dorne. _Is that what I am doing now, binding my destiny to this land?_ But what other choice did she have? Had there been any mercy in Robert Baratheon, she might have given herself up in the name of peace. _But he killed my son. He killed Rhaegar with his own hands, and no matter who did the deed, Elia and Rhaenys died on his order. He will not rest until we are all dead_.

 

Then she remembered that even in her dream, Rhaegar had still named him cousin. _Oh, my son, you never understood the falseness of men, even at the end_. He had spoken of a greater battle, of the world hanging in the balance. _But what is that to me? I am but one woman, old and weary_.

 

She had no love for prophecies, but for Rhaegar's memory she would try. She had three heirs, three Targaryen dragons, and soon it would be her turn to set them loose and smile upon her revenge. Rhaegar's revenge.

 

 _Fire and blood_.

**Author's Note:**

> We know very little about Rhaella Targaryen, the unfortunate wife of Mad King Aerys II and mother of Rhaegar, Viserys, and Daenerys. We know that Daenerys was born approximately nine months after the sack of King's Landing and that her mother died giving birth to her.
> 
> When we encounter Viserys Targaryen in canon, it is after approximately thirteen years of wandering through the Free Cities living on charity and no doubt perpetually in debt. We don't really know what happened beyond Dany's impressionistic recollections, so it's at least plausible that the cruelty we see from him may have been as much as result of deprivation as something he'd inherited from his father Aerys.
> 
> There are two major liberties I’ve taken in this fic. The first is the survival of Ashara Dayne, something that hasn’t so much been implied in canon as very vaguely hinted at. All we know is the rumor that she threw herself from the Palestone Sword into the sea after Ned Stark brought her the news of her brother Arthur’s death. Her body was never recovered, and although we get hints from Barristan Selmy later that she had been pregnant and lost the child, we don’t know how reliable a witness he is. I’m indulging in the rather left-field interpretation that Ashara not only survived, but that she faked her own death in order to join Jon Connington in Pentos and protect Elia and Rhaegar’s child (and if this were canon, she would be doing so under the name Lemore).
> 
> The second has to do with Rhaegar’s purported children. I completely buy the notion that Varys and Elia at least made an attempt to smuggle Rhaenys and Aegon out of King’s Landing, especially after the Trident, but there are so many moving parts to that plan that anything could have gone wrong at any time (and presumably did, with Rhaenys at least). My assumption is that, ultimately, it does not matter whether or not Aegon is real; what matters is what he represents. I am also presupposing that Jon Snow is actually the child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark and that his identity as Ned’s bastard son is a ruse to protect him from Robert.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Between the dragons and their wrath (crispy toast remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4181049) by [crookedspoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon)




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